Humor

Chew on these tales of bad behavior before you add a new member to your family

Sandra Olivetti Martin

Through the beveled glass oval of the front door, I could see trouble. My friend and hair-stylist Kathy Burns’ brother was not making a social call. His khaki uniform meant he had come on official business. Dogcatcher business.
The dog in question, Slip Mahoney, wasn’t home. Wherever he was, he had stirred up enough commotion to bring out the dogcatcher.
“He escaped,” I said, holding up my hands in helplessness.

I can’t claim to be unfamiliar with the living dead. I logged enough hours watching zombie movies as a kid that I could have received a PhD in zombiology from the George A. Romero School for the Aaaaaarghts.
However, I suspect in the event of an actual zombie outbreak I would get eaten pretty quickly. In a zombie movie, I would be the type of character who might not get eaten first but who will get eaten before the end credits.

Duck would never again be as fun as the tough, skinny, buckshot-riddled birds Mom and I cooked

Roberta Safer

“Mrs. Safer, Do you like ducks?” my adorable third-grade student asked as class was dismissed on a November Friday in 1962.
“Oh, yes,” I replied, recalling my many hours spent feeding the ducks and geese and riding the swan boats in Boston Common where I had grown up.
“I mean to eat,” she said, as if she had read my mind. “My dad is going hunting, and I could bring you some for dinner.”